


Cleansing

by Ekala



Series: Assassin's Creed Kink Meme Fills [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Bloodplay, Death, M/M, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekala/pseuds/Ekala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And now came salvation." De-anon from the (original?) Assassin's Creed Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleansing

**Author's Note:**

> Presented unedited, for archival purposes only.

It wasn't that he was ashamed. Malik quite appreciated running the fortress, doing all the work that no one ever thought of. And it was still work, sparse for a one-armed assassin. No, he liked the job he had held for years now.

He just missed the smell of blood. The look on a man's face as he watched your sword plunge into his chest. The strangled sound as a hidden blade thrust through a voicebox.

So, from time to time, he found a victim to release his frustrations upon. It was no worse than anything the Templars did, anyways, and they well deserved it. (or so he told himself.)

Tonight, though, was special. He stood in the shadows, an alley behind a bar, waiting for the man -- templar -- he knew came out every night this way, by himself and nearly preserved in the amount of alcohol he drank.

As said man walked out of the door, Malik shadowed him, waiting for him to trip over the carefully-placed wire across the alley. A hard stomp to the back of the neck followed by the hard pressure of knees to his back for security, and the man was dead.

Malik disconnected the wire, placing it back inside his robes, carefully dragging the body over to the cart discarded in the corner, covering it with a cloth and beginning to haul it down the street. Bodies were still common, and he also knew that his cloak looked very much like the gravediggers around town. 

And now came salvation.

\--

Altaïr had not expected this, when he went looking for his companion.

Malik was kneeling in the middle of the room, lit only by a few spare candles. A body hung above him, dripping black down onto him, sliding down the muscles on his back and staining the edge of his pants. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, hands raised up to his dark idol.

It was beautiful.

Wide strides carried him across the room, stripping his gloves off without thinking about it. He ran his hands up, across the planes of his back, smearing the thick substance up and around, running through his fingers, coating his hands. The smell hit him, suddenly, sweet and coppery and nostalgic. Then he was sucking at it, copper mixing with sweat, coating his mouth and sliding down his throat.

Malik was moaning beneath him, bloody hand tangling up into his hair. Altaïr let go of him only long enough to strip out of his own robes, pressing his chest against the slick heat of Malik's, reveling in the feel of blood against his skin. Eyes met and breath was heavy, the room overtaken by the smell of metal and lust.

Altaïr's eyes were narrow, looking much like the eagle he was named after. He continued lapping up blood, moving slowly from Malik's face to his neck, lower and lower, leaving brown streaks in its wake that slowly disappeared behind the thinning blood. He could feel the corpse still dripping, hard drops splattering across his back. Malik shuddered again, arching up towards him, bloodlust as evident in his eyes as in Altaïr's own.

Carefully avoiding the pot full of blood behind him, Altaïr slipped down, pulling Malik's out of his pants. He inhaled along the shaft, reveling in the moan and the smell of fresh sex, hot and demanding. He dipped his hand into the pot behind him, holding it dripping above Malik's cock, watching as the drops made their way down, winding across the heavy flesh. The smell was intoxicating.

He swirled his tongue around the head, growling softly at the bitter taste of man mixed with the copper of blood. Malik thrust upward, body straining to stay upright as his hand dug into Altaïr's scalp, voice low and animalistic. Altaïr sunk lower, sucking hard and breathing deep, drunk on blood and power. Before long, the rich taste of blood had faded to salt and sweat once again, and he repeated the process, using Malik as his gruesome buffet.

Malik's hips were stuttering by the third handful, and a heavy growl was the only warning before he got a mouth full of semen. Altaïr dutifully swallowed it, letting the taste run down his throat before he chased it away with another long, bloody path up Malik's chest. Their eyes met again, both hard and set, predators in their element, surrounded by death. Those were the only words spoken that night, among the carnal bloodlust and flickering light.

"What is it for?"

A chuckle, palm sliding across messy chests. "Painting.

"But it goes better with you."

\--

Altaïr laughed, dark and long, before sinking his teeth hard into Malik's neck. It was time for his fun. He dipped his hand in the pot again, letting it drip across Malik's chest slowly before shoving it inside his mouth, nearly choking him on the taste.

Malik growled, biting hard on Altaïr's fingers before sucking with equal ferocity, letting the smooth slick taste fade to the dirt and callus of swordsman. He arched into the other man, purring at the hot brand pushing into his stomach. Altaïr growled into his neck, biting him hard against and shoving his fingers deeper.

Altaïr lapped at the blood he had drawn from Malik, hotter and sweeter, contrasting against the fast-drying flakes clinging to his shoulder. He laughed again, deeper, withdrawing his hand from Malik's mouth to kiss him harshly, biting and tasting. Malik responded in kind, swallowing blood and saliva from both of them with vigor.

It was only as Altaïr drew back, eyes still black with lust, that Malik realized what the eagle wanted. He laughed, as dark as the blood covering them both, and drew Altaïr back into another bruising kiss. Reaching over him, he pushed them both back enough that he could dip his hand in the blood, smearing it down Altaïr's back and into his pants, earning a shudder and a long moan.

Malik slipped his hand down, closer, pressing against Altaïr's entrance for a mere moment before pushing inside roughly. Altaïr growled, pushing back against it, biting down on his shoulder again. Malik wondered, as he thrusted another finger in, how much of the blood on his hand was the Templar's and how much was Altaïr's. He laughed again, knowing that it didn't matter. The fact that it was there was the one making him hard again, the one making Altaïr bite a chunk off of his still-good shoulder. They were monsters of their own creation and design, swimming in death they caused.

But it barely mattered as Altaïr broke away from his shoulder to arch back, gasp melting to a moan. Malik grinned, feral and hungry, biting hard at Altaïr's neck as he ripped his hand out of him to dip it back into the slowly cooling blood. He slicked himself, hot and heavy again, watching the black syrup engulf him before ripping at Altaïr's pants.

Altaïr didn't wait for Malik to finish, pinning him back to the floor and impaling himself on him, throwing his head back and howling. He slid his hands back up Malik's chest, growling at the lack of blood. He reached back, slathering both his hands with it and running them back up Malik's body, laughing again.

Perhaps, Malik thought, they had both been insane for a very long time.

\--

Malik dug his nails into Altaïr's hip as he thrust up, growling. Altaïr grinned, almost depraved and inhuman, crushing Malik's chest to push back down and ride him roughly. Malik grunted, feeling the air rushing out of air, caring little as Altaïr tightened around him and the blood slid down his chest.

Altaïr was growling, groaning, moaning, _keening_ with pleasure. Through the rush of blood in his ears, Malik could hear it all, vaguely surprised at how loud the eagle was singing. But he was rocking hard enough to bruise both of their hips, carnal and rough and still slathering both of them in the now-cold, sickly sweet blood. It was exhilarating, in all its animalistic fervor.

A particularly hard slam down onto his chest broke Malik out of his reverie, gasping both from pleasure and lack of air as Altaïr roared before biting hard into a shoulder again. Malik groaned breathlessly as he came suddenly, head swimming with pleasure and pain. Altaïr followed, teeth biting further to fill his mouth with sweet lifeblood, hands bruising Malik's ribs and semen splattering white across the dark canvas of his stomach.

Malik slowly released a shuddering sigh, body aching but sated, physically dirty but spiritually cleansed. He felt alive again, for the first time in years. Many years. Altaïr grumbled against him, still licking at the bites he had left in his shoulders. Malik attempted to move, to talk, but Altaïr cut him off with a quick hand to his mouth. So they would stay quiet, again.

His head was yelling at him, though. All sorts of things were so _wrong_ , now, but the loudest ones were more immediate: the blood covering them both, the unlocked door, the corpse still hanging from the ceiling. Altaïr removed his hand, kissing him: gently, this time, softer than Malik had ever thought he could be. It quieted him more effectively than any order.

Altaïr reached over, grabbing his discarded robes - and, with a low chuckle, the lid of the pot, carefully closing it to prevent too much drying out of Malik's precious paint - and covered both of them, staying as close as he could.

And both, for once, were calm.


End file.
